


Nightmares

by Danny (DannyC)



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Body Horror, Canon-Typical Violence, Doesn't have to be Stucky if you don't want, Implied/Referenced Brainwashing, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Murder, Nightmares, Original Character Death(s), Paranoia, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Prisoner of War, Sleep Deprivation, Tip of the hat to hypnosis in Agent Carter, Torture, World War II, but only for a moment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-28
Updated: 2015-03-28
Packaged: 2018-03-20 02:03:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3632487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DannyC/pseuds/Danny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky did his best to stay awake, to keep from falling asleep too often. When he did sleep, it was for a few hours at a time, and only because he absolutely had to, his body shutting itself down after too many hours [usually days] spent alert. Other times he wanted to sleep but couldn’t, and would end up in an icy shower or bath, forcing his body into sleep as he reminded himself of cryo. Usually though? He tried to avoid it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nightmares

**Author's Note:**

> Please observe the tags, for there are several possible triggers in this drabble. See more notes at the end.
> 
> Thank you to brooklyncap and notacyclonefan on tumblr, as well as my little sister, whom I had to pay five dollars to read over this for me.  
> A special thank you also goes to dontbecooler here and on tumblr, for all of the wonderful support they give me, and for being my amazing beta reader. You give me so much confidence, I can't even word. :3
> 
> If you have any ideas for other drabbles or fics, hit me up; I'm sure I'd love to write it. Enjoy, let me know what you think!

Bucky did his best to stay awake, to keep from falling asleep too often. When he did sleep, it was for a few hours at a time, and only because he absolutely had to, his body shutting itself down after too many hours [usually days] spent alert. Other times he wanted to sleep but couldn’t, and would end up in an icy shower or bath, forcing his body into sleep as he reminded himself of cryo. Usually though? He tried to avoid it.

Today was no different. Bucky was tired, dog tired, _bone and soul tired._ He was nervous about letting his eyes close for too long, but he knew it was necessary. He had to sleep eventually and he also knew that he had pushed himself too far this time, enough so that he was hearing things, seeing things that weren’t really there. His paranoia had grown until he wasn’t able to function, and he was slowly but surely losing himself. He knew what he needed to do. He knew, but he was afraid.

It took him a long while, but eventually the brunette was caught up by his fatigue. It was making him physically ill now, and his mind was breaking down enough that everyone was worried about him, the other Avengers having been stopping by to do what they could. Sam especially, who knew enough about those in the midst of recovery to know when things were serious.

It was only with Steve’s help that Bucky was able to be coaxed into attempting to do so much as relax. “Just rest your eyes,” Steve had told him, giving him soft, gentle promises to watch his six, soothing Bucky as he swore he would watch the doors and windows. Steve even let Bucky set some traps before he slept, humoring him and letting them stay up even though they had already caught the blond twice, resulting with a minor wound in one instance. Bucky had felt guilty but in a far-away sense, like a tickle at the back of his mind, a ghost of a feeling; they were for _Them_ , Bucky had explained, because _They were **coming**_ **.** They were coming for him, he knew it.

His traps set and six being guarded by the Avengers, who had gathered in the front room of Steve’s apartment claiming they were there on business, Bucky eventually let himself relax some. He remained standing in the corner of the front room, having been trying to pay attention and listen to what Steve’s friends were there to talk about, back resting in the juncture of the walls with his arms folded over his chest. One minute he was listening to Tony Stark speak about something to Steve, and the next, Bucky’s head was lulling down, chin tucked against his chest as he fell asleep on his feet. It was nothing new, the Winter Soldier had learned to catch some rest wherever he could, even whilst standing; even Bucky Barnes had gotten used to it, as did many soldiers.

Everything seemed fine, and the others began to relax as they saw Bucky finally sleeping, Steve slowly moving him over to the couch and laying him out there, pulling a blanket down to cover him. It was a silent yet unanimous decision that had the group moving out of the den and into the kitchen area, wanting to discuss things and catch up, questions about Bucky beginning to steer the conversation; they were all growing fond of him, or something akin to it, and were worried about their friend’s charge, yet were oblivious to the twitches that eventually began to overtake the sleeping man, his head eventually turning this way and that, his brows drawn together and face scrunched as he flinched and tensed, breathing hitched when he managed to suck in shuddering gasps.

 

* * *

 

 

Bucky and Steve were seated together in their old apartment, the brunette smiling some as he watched Steve’s face, took in the slight furrow between his brows, the way his mouth scrunched and pinched at the corners as his pencil flew across the sketchbook. Bucky was lounging in one of their dining room chairs, sprawled out and tired from a long day at the docks, knowing he probably should have been showering and going to bed, but unwilling to lose this moment with the blond. Steve, peeking up at him every now and again, looking at him with an artist’s eye, studying him and taking him apart little by little, piecing him back together with lead and paper.

Bucky was trying his best not to shift around, not to get up and tackle the other to the bed, take away his book, whining about Steve with his head buried in the sketchbook all of the time; _I’m finally home and ya won’t even talk to me? Just wanna draw me up real pretty, huh Stevie?_  Anything to tease the other man pink, really. He didn’t want to ruin this moment, this perfect little moment...

It was warm, they had the window open, Bucky’s shirt unbuttoned halfway to reveal his undershirt beneath, Steve sitting on their bed with just his trousers on. Bucky’s hair was sticking to his forehead a little, as were Steve’s blond locks, but he didn’t reach up to move them like the distracted artist did, just stayed where he was, head tilted slightly to the side and cocked back some as he smiled fondly, blue eyes roaming over the small blond across the way, an unlit, hand-rolled cigarette perched between two fingers. He wanted to climb out onto their fire escape and smoke it, but that too would ruin this. So Bucky just sat there, waiting for what seemed like hours, until he just couldn’t stand it anymore. He had to get up, go distract Steve, something, anything.

There was a problem when Bucky tried to stand. His arms and legs weren’t moving right, and he... he couldn’t make himself look down at them. _Must have been more tired than I thought,_ Bucky mused to himself. _Ah well... just close my eyes for a bit,_ he decided. Steve wouldn’t mind if he just rested for a minute, not after the extra hours he’d been pulling at the docks, right? Yeah…

 

Bucky’s eyes flew open as something exploded to his right, dirt and debris showering him for a moment. “Get down! _Get the fuck down!”_ he shouted instantly, waving an arm at some of the men in his unit, the ones still peeking over the edge of their foxhole, trying to get a better look at the Krauts on the other side. Fucking kids, they were gonna get blown away if they weren’t more careful, and Bucky couldn’t have that. “Bobby! Bo— Robert! _**Goddammit** Long,_ get your ass over here!” Bucky shouted at the kid a few feet away. Just turned eighteen two days before the draft little kid from out in Oklahoma, Bucky had seen too much of Steve, little precious Stevie, needed to protect this kid too, keep him safe have to keep him safe _keep him fucking **safe,** Barnes!_

Bucky’s shouting must have gotten the kid’s attention because he looked over at Bucky, eyes wide and scared; men were dead all around them, blood and gore covering the dirt, life leaking out into the mud beneath their feet, bullets and dust spraying down like rain on the men in the holes and what the fuck was with the tanks, blowing new holes all around them. Bucky saw it, the fear there, but he mustered up a smile, an _“It’s okay Stevie, it’s okay, you’re okay, just breathe, just like that, yeah that’s good, come on Stevie”_ smile. Bobby must have seen it because his face lightened, a small smile forming on his own lips as he opened his mouth to say something, taking a step towards Bucky and reaching out towards him as—

 

A bullet tore through his helmet, spraying Bucky with warm liquid he didn’t want to think about, his smile painted with living lipstick no broad would ever want to wear. Bobby dropped like a stone off Brooklyn Bridge, body lying prone on the ground, joining the pile of other fallen soldiers. Bucky blinked. He blinked again, just fucking stared. No. No, no _no no_ **_no!_** This— no, Long was _his,_ his charge, his kid, he had to keep him safe had to keep him okay, had to get to him.

"Bobby! Long, look at me. Come on kid, get up. Get your ass up!" Bucky begged, angry and pleading and god please no, please not the kid, please! He reared up, shooting across the empty space, taking down a few Krauts as he scrambled over to Long, crouching down and choking as he tried to breathe. He turned him over and— "God," he sobbed, shaking his head and pulling the kid close, holding him to his chest and rocking him some. The kid’s face was... Jesus Christ, it was wrong, this was all wrong, he couldn’t, no, please, please not him, please... "Fuck... you— you fucking idiot," he grit out in anguish, not caring that his uniform was getting stained, not caring that he’d dropped his gun in place of holding some dead man’s body. He didn’t care. It was fucking _wrong,_ and he didn’t care.

Bucky was getting cold, as cold as the body in his arms, darkness closing in around him. That wasn’t right, he had stood up and charged the enemy, had killed anyone in his way, led his men forward. Yet it was happening, as though the moon and stars were blotted out, a curtain closed around him, sucking him into a pit of darkness not even Steve’s face could light back up.

 

"Sergeant James Barnes, 32557038... Sergeant... Sergeant James... James Barnes, 3255...7...038. Sergeant...Barnes, Sergeant James Barnes, 32557-" Bucky frowned a little, shaking his head some. He couldn’t remember the rest. What was the rest? Three more numbers. He didn’t know, so he added those to the list of other things he’d forgotten since the fucking table, repeating what he did know. "Sergeant James Barnes, 32557. S-Sergeant James Barnes, 32557." He could hear them, people talking just out of sight, footsteps approaching... Soon enough, all he could hear was screaming.

 

It wasn’t his own screaming anymore, but the man in front of him as he dug his knife in a little deeper, until the blade bit at bone. Bucky didn’t pull back, didn’t look away or flinch. They needed information, and Bucky was especially good at getting it, familiar with all of the best techniques and able to stomach the things the other Commandos couldn’t or wouldn’t. Bucky didn’t mind. He could do these things so the others didn’t have to, so _Steve_ didn’t have to. He could. Bucky just held on tightly, breathed out, and dug a little deeper.

 

It was cold again. Too cold, fucking freezing, and Bucky was terrified. His hands gripped at the bar more tightly as he stared up at Steve. No. No no no, not this again, please not this. He knew this. He remembered this. Steve was reaching for him, telling him to _hold on, grab my hand!_ and Bucky reached. He fucking reached, but then he realized.. he was going down. He was going to fall, no matter what happened, and if he took Steve’s hand... Steve would fall too. He couldn’t do that, couldn’t kill Steve with him; he’d rather die alone than Steve die with him. If he took Steve’s hand, Steve would die.

Before he could even make a decision, Bucky was falling. Tumbling and twisting and blue and white and a train horn and—  
And then he was even colder than before. Everything hurt and felt too close, but far away. Cotton in his ears, something was... was wrong, with his arm. He looked over and felt sick; it was mangled, part of his bones sticking out as it lay pinned under his body. There was blood, so much blood, and snow, and... and he was tired.

 

Days. Days passed. Passed... Men came, two at first, returning with more, and Bucky felt it. Felt them cut his arm off, but that was fine; it was dead and cold now, mostly numb as they sawed at it, cutting through his bicep where the bone was already protruding. And then they were dragging him, pulling him through the snow, blood painting the white and staining it crimson. 

Bucky closed his eyes and slept.

He woke when they cut off the rest of his arm, screamed, begged, pleaded, anything, but then... he was with Steve again. Coney Island. Everything was okay, and he slept. Again, Bucky woke when he was given a new arm, but he wasn’t Bucky, not really. Things were gone, missing from when they talked to him or took him... took him _there,_ where electricity and lightning flowed through his head and veins, chasing Bucky out and eating him up inside.

 

Things were blurring together now, flashes here and there, pinpoints in time that stretched on too long. Men, women, children. Crying, begging, both from himself and his mission targets. Pain, so much fucking pain. Knives and guns and anything he could use. Blood, god, there was so much blood. Hands on him, his hands on others, Steve was gone, who was Steve? Howard. Howard and Maria Stark, acceptable collateral: ~~Anthony Stark~~ not applicable. Car wreck and _“Well if it isn’t Bucky Barnes,”_ from a dying man’s lips, but that didn’t make sense either. Mission mission mission, only the mission.

 

And then there he was. The man on the bridge, the blond. He recognized him but didn’t. They fought, no no you’re my mission shut up shut up _shut up!_  
Report, report. Mission failed, renew attempt.  
Helicarrier, you’re my mission.  
My mission!  
My... mission.  
Mission?

You’re my friend.

 

Steve held Bucky close and smiled. “I’m with you ‘til the end of the line,” he promised, but there was blood leaking from his mouth and warmth on Bucky’s hands. This wasn’t right, not how it happened, no no don’t look _don’t fucking **look**_ **—** Bucky looked down between them, saw his hand holding his knife, the blade deep within Steve’s stomach.  
The Winter Soldier looked back up at Captain Steven Rogers, his mission, and smiled, Bucky Barnes locked inside and screaming, begging  
_please not Steve please no god please no—_

“‘Til the end of the line, Stevie.”

 

* * *

 

Bucky screamed.

**Author's Note:**

> So, it has come to my attention that people don't like sad endings without fluff. Huh. Who would have thought? If you would like for me to add a second fluff chapter, some kind of hurt/comfort thing between Steve and Bucky, possibly featuring the other Avengers as well, let me know. Ideas would be great. 
> 
> Thank you for reading this! I hope you enjoyed it as much as I enjoyed writing it.


End file.
